The Once and Future King
by crowprincess14
Summary: The day was here. The one that England hated the most. Flashbacks... So many flashbacks. They hurt. Badly. True, his love was human. He was destined to die anyway. But that didn't make the anniversary of his death any less painful. One sided EnglandxKing Arthur. Rated T for safety and such. CURRENTLY ON HOLD.
1. Prologue: An anniversary

**So, recently I've been going through a bit of a King Arthur phase lately. And I just finished the amazing book **_**The Once and Future King. **_**Which got me thinking… Was there any Hetalia crossovers out there? I was shocked to find that there was none. **

**So I decided to create this ship! I really do love it, as much as I love USUK. **

**Just a note, please don't hold me to accuracy, I suck at historical fiction. All the spellings and dates are from **_**The Once and Future King**_**. **

**I don't own anything except for the idea.**

* * *

**Prologue**

**An Anniversary**

England had known this day was coming. It came the same time every year, without fail. He'd been mentally preparing for it for over a month now.

That didn't make it hurt any worse when he rolled out of bed and double checked the date, however. _Ugh… Today really did come. Damn It all. _Of course it came. Anniversaries weren't like people. You couldn't actively avoid them. They came and tore through you, no matter how many defenses you had up.

There were a lot of anniversaries that England hated. Every country, especially one of his age, had them. Even the younger nations, like America, had times where they just wanted that one day to be over with. Once it was over, they would wipe their eyes sheepishly and at least pretend to be whole again. But everyone had to have at least one day to let all of their sadness out or they would go insane.

He slowly set a teapot on the stove and leaned against the wall. Yes, there was a lot of days he didn't want to leave the bed on. The day his mum died, the day America left him, the day the Blitz started, the day… He shook his head. He'd deal with that pain on the days allotted for them. It was a different day today. A different ache. Similar to the one he felt around America, but not quite the same.

It was a broken heart.

Seeing as the tea _still _wasn't ready, England noted with a small huff, (honestly, it didn't normally take the water this long to boil), he walked to the sitting room across the hall. Or at least to the doorframe. Reluctantly, he forced himself to take a step forward into the velvet walled room. Then another. Then another. His eyes locked on the top drawer of an amore, the one that he always left locked. He had made both America and Canada cry when they asked what was in it. Sure, they were only children at the time, but secrets were secrets. He wasn't going to open like that to anybody. Even America, who he still cared about deeply, wasn't allowed to know. No one was that special to him anymore.

Well, that wasn't exactly true.

The one person he could have been free with, could have told anything, was dead.

Shakily, he slipped his hand under his simple white shirt and brought out an ancient key tied onto a lacy black ribbon. Before he could give himself time to decide against it, he jammed it into the lock and turned. _Well… Here goes nothing… _He pulled it open.

Four very different objects sat inside. A brown leather glove, still in perfect condition after all these years. A dried sprig of herbs, tied together with a magical string which would not allow them to fall into decay. A ladies' handkerchief, edged with hand stitched lace. And finally, a roughly carved wooden cross.

A screech of a teapot snapped him out of his reverie. Quickly, he picked all for items up and ran back into the kitchen. Setting them down on his small breakfast table, he finished making the tea. He poured himself a cup, then sat down with the objects in front of him.

There was no time like the present. He picked up the glove and raised it to his lips. _Hay… Horses… Hounds… _Yes, it still smelled like Arthur did back then.

He felt himself be taken back.

* * *

_She is not any common earth_

_Water, or wood, or air,_

_But Merlin's Isle of Gramarye_

_Where you and I will fare_


	2. Chapter 1: The Sword in the Stone

_Incipit Liber Primus_

**Chapter 1**

**The Sword in the Stone**

England sprinted into the churchyard. The theory was that he could claim sanctuary in the church itself and be safe for the time being. But he doubted his brother would abide by such a practice. He wasn't much for chivalry.

"Where'd ye go, runt?" an uncomfortably nearby voice called. "When I get me hands on ye-!"

England let out a terrified squeak. Ever since his mum had died, he'd suffered many a beating from his elder brother, Scotland. He wasn't going to stick around and let it happen again. He threw his small body behind a tree stump.

Just in time, too, for a form with a bright red mess of hair lumbered into the yard. "I know ye wen' in here!" His gaze wandered around, finally alighting upon the tree stump behind which he hid.

England held his breath and shrank lower to the ground.

Scotland took a step towards him.

Then another.

Then another.

Then the footsteps paused. The gate to the churchyard had squeaked, signaling that another person had entered. England relaxed slightly. Maybe Scotland wouldn't hurt him or even let him go with this other being around to witness.

Scotland was quiet for a moment, then grunted. "I'll get ye' next time, brat." The sound of hastily retreating footsteps in the other direction told him that his brother had gone, at least for the time being. He dared a peek over the stump.

There, on the gravel path approaching the center of the courtyard, was a boy. He could be only a few years older than the young nation appeared. He was dressed in the clothes of a squire, simple and unassuming. At a glance, nobody would have expected anything special of him.

And yet, England felt himself being drawn towards him. He had this… familiarity… about him. Like he was an old friend that he hadn't seen in years. Only, they had never met before, he was sure of it. How strange.

The boy reached the center of the courtyard, where a peculiar item sat. A sword, wedged into a large block of stone. An inscription on the rough stone read: "_Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone and anvil, is Rightwise King of All England._"

England wasn't sure he wanted anybody to pull out the sword. The last king, Uther Pendragon, was dead, it was true. The people were looking for a new person to reign over them, as he had no known heirs. But the only thing Uther had done was ignite his brothers' anger even more, causing his life to become miserable. A new king would only make matters worse, in his opinion. Not that anybody had ever listened to what he thought.

However, the boy paid no attention to the inscription. His eyes were fixed firmly upon the fateful sword.

"Come, sword." he said. "I must cry your mercy and take you for a better cause."

England's eyes widened. Was he actually going to try to remove the sword? Surely he knew that the task was impossible. However, he didn't seem discouraged in the slightest.

He wiped sweat from his brow, then pulled his brown gloves off, to get a better grip on the hilt, he assumed. Then he placed his bare hands upon the hilt, as if it were an ordinary blade.

He gave a tug. It didn't budge. The boy backed up, dazed from strain.

England sighed softly. Guess his intuition was wrong. This boy wasn't the one.

_Wait,_ a voice in the back of his head whispered. _You may yet not be disappointed_. England started. That voice… It wasn't his own. Where had he heard it before?

A determined look had come into the squire's eyes. He tried again, to no avail. But still, he refused to give up. He cocked his head, as if listening to something England couldn't hear. Then he nodded, smiling grimly. Again, he approached the sword.

He wrapped his right hand gently around the hilt, and pulled. England leaned forward with baited breath.

The sword slid out of the hilt, as smoothly as if it had been oiled yesterday, not trapped in stone for hundreds of years.

The squire smiled, happy that he had at last acquired his prize. He turned and walked away, just like that. Like nothing special had happened. Like he was nothing special.

England slowly walked up to the stone, looking strangely empty without the sword stuck in it. So that was it. That boy was the new king. What was this strange feeling in his chest? Could it be… hope? It wasn't something he had ever felt before. It felt... good. He liked the feeling.

His toe hit one of the gloves that the squire had left behind. Absently, he picked it up and put it in his pocket. It smelled like the stables, the part of his brain that wasn't completely awestruck registered.

Just once, his future didn't feel so scary and unknown.

He turned and walked out of the churchyard.

Maybe, it was something he could look forward to.

* * *

England set the glove down, chuckling. Ah, how innocent he was then. He took a sip of his tea, savoring the familiar taste. In times like this, it was important for him to maintain his usual habits. It kept him together.

After a few minutes, he picked up the next oldest item on the table, the sprig of herbs. It was a remnant of a time when such things were thought to ward off evil, or heal you of your illness. Modern science had disproven most of this. England was skeptical of this, however. He had personal experience with their properties, whether they worked or not. The belief that they worked often did more than the actual plant.

The fragrance once again took him to a time long past.

_When shall I be dead and rid_

_Of the wrong my father did?_

_How long, how long, till spade and hearse_

_Put to sleep my mother's curse?_

**EXPLICIT LIBER PRIMUS **


End file.
